Dragonblood
by Boys Do Like Girls
Summary: Solstheim, 4E 205. When Jon Stormcloak, and his Housecarl Ralof Wood, step onto the shore of Solstheim, they have no idea the evil they face. Defeated and broken, Jon is left to die by his new nemesis, but a power is awakening. A darkness is rising, one that threatens Mundus itself. Jon Stormcloak will not only have to come back, but rise, if there is any hope of saving Tamriel...
1. Unsteady First Steps

**A spin off. For those Season fans, this is set before Season's End, so many things will be different. Anyway, I hope it's good. It should only be about ten chapters in total. There will be several viewpoints, including Jon, Ralof and a couple of others. **

**Jarl Jon Stormcloak**

**He missed Ysold. Jon Stormcloak, **the Jarl of Windhelm had left Eastmarch nearly a month ago, after being confronted by Odahviing in the marshes of the eastern hold. Normally, he wouldn't have cared for the dragon's plight; after all, _they_ had rejected him as their master after he had killed Alduin, and he had no love for their kind anyway. But the faas, _fear_, in the dovah's voice had struck a part of Jon that couldn't refuse his pleads. So, now he was here in Solstheim, annoyed and frustrated, touching the rocky ground and trying to imagine it was Ysold's smooth skin. He grunted in annoyance before standing up and looking around, taking in Raven's Rock.

It was a large mining town, more of a city, with deep ebony oars and strong people. There was a diverse mix of Nords and Dunmer here, after the former had given the other race the island after Morrowind was all but destroyed by the eruption of Red Mountain, the largest volcano in Tamriel. Jon was definitely more at ease among his own people, the Nords, but Ralof, his Housecarl, was suited for an environment like this, and was talking to both races with relative ease. He was walking over to Jon now, his long blond hair blowing in the light wind, and his regular face in a grimace.

'What is it?' Jon asked, curious to hear what had happened. He didn't get along all that well with people. While in Windhelm that was Ysold's job. He started thinking about her, the way her mouth moved, the way she looked at him with her emerald eyes-

Ralof snapped his fingers under his face. 'Hey, lover boy! Have you even heard a word I've said?'

Jon pushed him angrily. 'You pick the worse times.'

'I think you have bigger problems here than what's going on at home.'

_It wasn't really about home, _he reflected guiltily. Windhelm always came a definite second to Ysold. And his sons.

'Right, so the Dunmer over there said he hasn't seen anything recently, but the Nord has heard rumours.'

'What kind?'

'Wind, grain, and… a disturbance in the north.'

Jon nodded approvingly. 'That could be pruzah; I mean good,' he correctly quickly. The draconic still slipped into his speech after some three/four years.

'It better be,' Ralof agreed moodily. 'We've been here a week, and got jack-shit for our troubles.'

'What were you expecting?'

'Doesn't your contact have a plan?' Ralof didn't know about the dragon.

Jon thought about it. In truth; no. He decided to humour the other Nord with vague news. 'He wants to meet us tonight, a mile from town.'

'Then why have we even bothered to find this stuff out.'

Jon pointed at him. 'Because, Ralof, I don't want to rely on a dovah, _dragon,_ for everything we do here.' _Never trust a dovah. _'Anyway,' he said, heaving up his bag; 'doesn't it give you some kind of fulfilment. Like you're a real hero.'

Ralof scowled. 'That's funny.'

'I'm smiling,' Jon agreed, feeling remarkably happy, which was strange considering his situation.

Ralof shook his head. 'I'm the funny one, remember. You're the grumpy sod, so play you're part.'

Jon smiled a thin smile as he led the way to the inn. Nightfall was still several hours away, even in Solstheim, which spent most of its time in a dusky feel, being so high north. The weather suffered as well; it was always cold, and snow was a regular visitor. Both Nords were dressed in light leather, under a set of chainmail, which heavy fur boots, gloves and cloaks over that. Jon had left his precious skyforge steel set of armour at home, but kept Kodaav, the ancient sword of Clan Stormcloak. He wouldn't do without it.

It was only a short walk, but Ralof was complaining by the time they entered the inn. Jon took one look around, before nudging his Housecarl. 'Remember the last time we were in an inn.'

Ralof brightened immediately. 'You mean with big and ugly.'

'Aye, the one in Riverwood.'

'Ha! Us and Ulfric kicked them into an early grave.' He noticed Jon's expression at a mention of his father, sombre and thoughtful. 'I'm sorry, Jon. I shouldn't have mentioned him like that.'

Stormcloak shrugged. 'He's been dead for three years now. What is it to me?'

'He was your father, Jon. It's understandable-'

'Let's get a room,' he said firmly, ending the conversation. Despite Ulfric Stormcloak's last ones, Jon couldn't help but blame himself. They were unhappy memories, and he tried to forget them as best he could. He focused his mind on the task ahead to try and clear away the vul, _dark_, thoughts as he approached the bar.

'What do you want?' The bartender was looking at Jon with an annoyed look on his face.

Jon leaned onto the bar, much taller than the Nord, who looked uncomfortable all of the sudden. 'My name is Carl Jon Storm. This is Carl Ralof Wood. We'd like a room for tonight.' He didn't use Stormcloak; it was too recognisable. Ralof was lucky as Wood was a new name, and completely anomalous. Similarly, a Jarl would attract far too much attention.

The man paled as he recognised their rank, and saw their weapons and armour, both expensive. 'Of course, my Carls. The best is it?' Jon nodded. They were acting as Carls, Ralof was a Carl, so there was no need to play poor. 'Twenty septims, Lord.' Jon passed them across and the man took them quickly with the grace of a man who took anything he could get.

'Thank you.' Jon turned away but Ralof approached the barman.

'The room has two beds, right?'

The barman nodded, looking terrified now, as if Ralof was about to gut him.

'Good. I wouldn't want to bed that ugly bitch when I'm stone drunk,' he grinned, indicating Jon. 'Two ales, then.'

Stormcloak stepped forward. 'Ysold won't let me drink ale.'

Ralof turned to him aghast. 'I thought we'd gotten past this.'

'Getting me pissed one night wasn't exactly the right way to "get past it".''

He shrugged. 'Kidnapping was actually a plan,' he admitted easily.

Jon just let him get on with it, and looked for a good table. That wasn't an abundance of those, seeing as it was evening and the end of a week, but he managed to get a free one for two before Ralof came back with the drinks. They sipped them quietly, Jon surveying his fellow drinkers and trying to ignore the thick bile that was the ale; apart from Ysold's restrictions, he didn't much like it anyway. Ralof, on the other hand, drank his easily, with a contented smile. Jon didn't think he would ever get it.

'So,' Carl Wood began, a serious look coming over his face; 'why are we here anyway?'

Jon sighed. He had wanted to put off telling his Housecarl what exactly they were doing here until he had found out more himself, but that didn't seem like it was going to happen. In any case Jon owed Ralof an explanation after he had just followed him without so much as a word of notice. 'Well,' he begun, putting his ale aside distastefully; 'do you remember when we went out into the marshes of Eastmarch?'

'On the way to Fort Amol? Yes, I remember,' he replied curiously.

Jon thought carefully. He hadn't told Ralof about Odahviing yet. 'I was told by an old friend that a great evil was stirring here. He told me it was coming to Skyrim eventually, so I decided to stop it here.' He saw the look on Ralof's face and continued. 'I'm Dragonborn now, even if I don't like to admit it. It seemed like something I needed to do. Besides, he looked scared. It's unlike him.'

Ralof listened in silence before leaning back. 'Sounds like bullshit,' he concluded definitively.

Jon scowled. 'Fine, but we're here anyway.'

He snorted. 'You don't have to tell me that.' He looked around with a nostalgic look. 'I miss The Frozen Hearth.'

'Weren't you the one who said you can drink anywhere?'

'Yes, I did.' He indicated his ale. 'Here I am, drinking. I never said I liked it.'

'Well, don't worry. We're leaving now.'

Ralof looked affronted now. 'Why?'

Jon was already getting up. 'You're going to meet my friend.'

'The bullshitter?' he confirmed.

'If you like. Come on, it doesn't pay to make him wait.'

'And yet, _I'm_ the one who has to defeat this "great evil",' Ralof grumbled.

Jon ignored him and led the way from the inn, into the freezing kah, _cold_. He glanced around before heading out of the city and into the forest that surrounded it. Odahviing said he would meet them a few miles away. Where exactly, Jon didn't know.

In truth, Stormcloak was a little worried about seeing the dovah, _dragon,_ again. They were unpredictable at the best of times, and he already knew that to trust one was to sign your death sentence. It was an uneasy state of affairs, but even as he got further into this strange 'quest' he became more curious about what exactly was so evil that it scared a dragon and led them to ask the Dragonborn for help. It seemed like he was about to find out soon enough.

He came to them as they nearer a clearing, a mile or so from the city. His red scales glittered like rubies, but his underside was white as snow.

'Dovahkiin, this is a good meeting,' Odahviing said.

'That depends,' Jon replied. 'I've come all this way; what do you want?'

'You brought your battle companion,' the dragon noticed, watching Ralof, who had stumbled back in shock, ignoring Jon.

'Odahviing!' he snapped impatiently. 'Tell me why I'm here?'

'Do not rush me, Dovahkiin!' Odahviing said angrily, in his draconic way. 'I will tell you in due time.'

'No, you won't. I have no business here but yours. I'll just leave.'

Fear shot through Odahviing's eyes. 'Many pardons, Dovahkiin,' he said grudgingly. 'You are here to stop a great evil.'

Jon stared at him frankly. 'I understand that. What is this "great evil"?'

'One that will destroy Tamriel should you fail.'

'What else?' Jon pressed.

'I cannot say. Should you fail, I will be the first.'

Stormcloak was shocked. Whatever this evil was, Odahviing was clearly terrified. 'What is it-'

'Find a guide. Go to the Temple of Miraak. Good luck, Dovahkiin.'

Jon was startled. 'That's it? That's all you have for me!' He started forward, but Odahviing took off. 'What's his great evil! Tell me!' Stormcloak stayed like that, watching the sky furiously, breathing heavily, before Ralof snapped him back to his senses.

'Your contact was a bloody dragon! You could have told me that.'

Jon just looked at him, furious at Odahviing's 'guidance', before sighing. 'We need to find a guide.'

**Odahviing will return! Please review! Next chapter will come out eventually. **


	2. Nine Fingers

**The next chapter. Introducing some more characters here. It's all going to kick off big time next chapter. **

**The thanks: To Drakilian Black, thanks for the Story Favourite and the Story Follower! To ZoeKJ-Tazmina, thanks for the assorted Story Followers and Favourites! **

**Please review if you like it. Or, you know, if you don't. Just do it anyway. **

**Valus Redoran **

**Valus Redoran watched the other **players carefully, waiting for their next move. His dagger was feeling heavy in his hands, and fear pulsed through his body, but all in all, Valus was calm. The same couldn't be said of his opponents. One of them, a Nord, was sweating. The stupid brutes were never nimble enough to win, and it cost them dear. His other opponent though was a Dunmer, like himself, and he looked perfectly relaxed, and at ease.

The Nord tried to strike with his dagger, trying to catch one of the outstretched hands laid flat on the table in front of him. The only rule was that no hand could stay off the table for more than five seconds, and you could play for as long as you wanted, until all your fingers were gone, but that never happened; it was just tradition.

The Nord tried to go for Valus but he lifted his unarmed hand, flicking his dagger at the attacker's own. The little finger came off in a spurt of blood and the Nord fell back, dropping his dagger, screaming. That was another rule; once your weapon hit the table, it was over.

Valus turned his attention to the other Dunmer, who was watching him with keen, dark eyes. He flicked his dagger forward, but Redoran moved his hand, retaliating with a thrust. The other Dunmer blocked off his dagger, and returned his hand to the ground. Another rule; only one hand could stay off the table at once, unless you were attacking. Of course, this led to cheating, because it was nigh on impossible to determine if a player had been about to attack, but in any case it was settled in the end, even if it was behind the scenes.

Valus' nerves were high now, ad exploding off his mind. It was becoming hard to keep his hands still, or meet his opponent's eyes, but he did. Of course he did. Valus waited, watching. The room crackled with tension. The whole inn was watching now, huddled around the table. And then it happened.

The other Dunmer moved forward his armed hand. Redoran moved his as well, lifting to come over and cut his unarmed hand. As he came over, moving faster, the Dunmer moved his hand, bringing his armed fist down to cut Valus' own unarmed fingers.

Suddenly, quickly, in a burst of adrenaline, Redoran slammed down his armed hand, onto the table and used his unarmed hand to beat away his opponent's dagger to his own right, and then slicing up with his own weapon, cutting off two of the other Dunmer's fingers. He let out a cry and Valus sat back, planting his hands back on the table. The dagger was dropped and he had won.

'It was a trick,' the other Dunmer said, his face washed in sweat and his voice broken.

'You can use any hand to win, provided the other is on the table, my dagger hand was,' he added; 'or if you are attacking. I played it fair; so should you,' Valus said pointedly, tapping his weapon against the table lightly. The other Dunmer grasped the point easily enough and backed off, pressing a dirty cloth against his wound. Valus nodded at him, smiling pleasantly, before turning his attention to two Nords who were standing by the table. Redoran rolled his eyes; _not more Nords_, before looking up.

'What do you want?' he asked, icily.

The shorter of them answered, a Nord in his early thirties with blond hair, bright eyes, and a regular face with a slightly long nose. It was the other one who caught Valus' attention though; standing at six feet, seven inches tall, with piercing blue eyes, rimmed in silver, and a set of fearsome scars running down his cheek and jaw. His gaze burned into Valus, but he said nothing.

'We hear you're the best when it comes to guiding travellers,' the blond one said.

'You heard wrong, Nord,' Valus said coldly. 'I don't do tourism.'

'Lucky that's not what we want. The Temple of Miraak; do you know where it is?' the blond one pressed.

'Of course I do.'

'Then guide us.'

'I don't help Nords.'

'Not even for gold,' he asked, raising his eyebrows.

That picked up Valus' interest. 'How much?'

'More than you could want.'

Valus was angry at himself for even considering it, but he needed the money. 'What are your names?'

'Carl Ralof Wood and Carl Jon Storm,' he answered. _Carls, naturally, _Valus sighed.

The black-haired one, Storm, was still silent. 'Is your friend a mute?' Redoran asked, sneering slightly.

'Only when I don't feel the need to converse with lowlifes,' the mute said. Valus was struck by his voice; it just tore through him, penetrating his words and other sounds. It was almost impossibly clear for a voice so deep. It had a slight ting to it though, like honey, or steel. It unnerved Valus and he found no reply, so the blond Carl continued.

'Are you going to help us or not?'

He needed the money, but he didn't want to assist the Nords. But then, there was a way to settle this.

'You know the game "Nine Fingers"?' he asked, smiling thinly.

Jon Storm didn't seem to recognise it, but the blond haired Nord's eyes narrowed. 'You want to put a bet on this?' Wood asked.

'You win, I'll lead you. Otherwise, you pay me five hundred septims, but no job.' The two Nords looked at each other. Storm raised his eyebrow at Wood. 'I know you have it,' Valus continued. 'So don't bother trying to plead poverty.'

Wood nodded, before turning to Storm. It took a few moments for them to decide, but eventually the blond Nord placed his hands on the table and jerked his head, sitting. 'It's a deal.'

'On your honour?' Valus asked.

'On mine,' Storm said, his voice sharp. Redoran didn't bother to argue.

'Fine. Let's do this.' Valus pulled out his dagger. Wood did the same, and then it was on.

Valus studied his opponent, noting the way Wood's eyes stayed fixed on the Dunmer's hands. The Carl's fingers moved restlessly, running up and down the handle of his dagger. His lips moved slightly, licking the dry skin. Redoran's own hands were unmoving, still, and his face was perfectly impassive.

Suddenly, with a slight flick, Wood moved his dagger forward. Valus moved his hand soundlessly, while bringing his own dagger onto the back of Wood's unarmed hand. The skin split, and blood started pumping out. The Carl flinched, but pulled back. He had stopped biting his lip. Redoran searched his eyes but found no emotion there; no fear, no doubt. That strangeness struck uncertainty into Valus as he tried to consider whether the Nord was stupid, or very brave.

Wood moved, but Valus was quicker. He moved forward, catching the Nord's hand again. Suddenly though, a sharp cold slit his skin and he saw dark blue blood run from his fingers. He pulled back as shock enveloped his mind; he had never been cut before. Redoran regarded his opponent in a new light. Caution, but daring would be needed. Wood would expect him to be too shocked to attack again, but now was the perfect opportunity. He swept forward. The Nord was too slow. But his eyes registered no alarm as Valus' dagger slammed down through his hand, pinning it to the table. Redoran watched him in disbelief as the Nord's dagger severed his ring finger.

Pain, hot and burning, stabbed through his skin. He drew back his hand, letting out a cry and Wood threw his dagger. It slammed into Redoran's arm, through the dark flesh. He gritted his teeth as a scream threatened to escape. Storm sat, impassive, unimpressed. Wood pulled out Redoran's own dagger from his hand, and with his good right one, flipped it up so it was level with Redoran's throat.

Valus watched it, paralysed. He had been beaten. The pain was surging through him. It was an illegal play, to throw your dagger, but the Nords obviously didn't give a damn. He looked up, shaking his head in disbelief.

'Surrender?' asked Wood. Scarlet was covering the Carl's hand, pouring down his arm. He didn't care though. There was only really one option open to Valus now.

'Miraak's Temple?' he asked, grimacing against the pain. 'Get me down to a goddamn physician then.'

**The next chapter will feature Miraak. Hopefully it will be pretty good. Also, I hope you like Valus. I've never written a Dark Elf before, so I hope it wasn't too bad. Please review, guys. **


	3. The First And The Last

**The thanks; To Badger2430, thanks for the Story Follower and Story Favourite. To DragonXander, the Bosmer might have a golden-brown blood. Ralof's fingers were just cut, but not cut off. That would be weird. Thanks for the review. Again, if I missed anyone, well it was a long time in coming. Hopefully it will be good. **

**Please review, or I'll get Ralof to play Nine Fingers with you. **

**Carl Ralof Wood **

The dark elf led a steady path, Carl Ralof Wood had to concede, after a week of following him. As soon as the elf had seen his injuries seen to, and Ralof his, they had set off, over hills and mountains. Wood still wasn't ready to forgive the elf for the wounds he had sustained acquiring his services, but he was mollified by the fact that Valus was every bit as good at guiding as his reputation suggested.

The dark elf led from the front, dressed in a long black leather coat. A long, slightly curved sword hung at his side and a dagger hung at his back. His boots were stained and dirty, but tough, his white shirt grubby, but the elf's hair was tied back and sleek. His face possessed noble features, a defined chin, black eyes; clearly there was more to this elf than there appeared to be. But at the moment, Ralof had no idea what it was. And that just made him even more untrustworthy.

Jon didn't seem to care. He just trudged relentlessly behind the elf, his expression blank. His fur cloak whipped in the wind, and but he kept his eyes in front of him, seemingly ignorant to the world. But Ralof knew that wasn't true.

The days were harsh. As they got further north the weather became colder. This wasn't a problem for the Nords, but the temperaments of the winds were becoming fierce. The sky had the colour of a storm. It chilled Ralof's bones. It would be his fucking luck to get caught in a blizzard.

**The blizzard hit as they** were trudging up the mountain that held Miraak's Temple. It was a mile or so up, but it was there. Ralof was obviously pleased at its sight, until he noticed the evil looking rocks sticking out, ready to spear him. Even Jon had to agree that it wasn't the most welcoming entrance. Valus just watched them with a smirk.

'Ready for this?'

Ralof regarded him coolly. 'I think we'll manage.'

The snows came as they reached the steps that led to the temple. That should have been a good thing, but as the snow fell the stone itself became slippery. Soon enough, Ralof wished he was back on the dirt road. The winds were fierce and small shrubs were uprooted from the ground. Before long, Ralof's face was wind-burnt as snow punched into his eyes and nose, causing him to cough and splutter. Valus led them steadily, using the rock enclosing the path on either side to pull himself along. Even with their hoods pulled up, and hands in gloves, the biting cold began to nip at Ralof's fingers, freezing them. He gritted his teeth, but anyone could see that it they stayed in the storm, and didn't find shelter, they were dead men.

It wasn't a surprise when Jon grabbed Valus' shoulder, his voice cutting through the storm.

'We need to find shelter, or else we're dead men!'

Valus' face was covered by a scarf, but his eyes betrayed him. 'There is no cover. The Temple is less than a mile up that hill.'

Jon pulled the elf back. 'You've led us to die,' he snarled. Ralof frowned, but didn't move.

Valus threw off his hands. 'Do you think I want to die too?' They glared at each other, but finally Jon stepped past him, and returned to fighting through the vicious winds.

For a second, Ralof had forgotten the blizzard, but the pounding of his head, and numbness of his hands brought it back to him. He spat some saliva through his hands and followed Valus as the elf pulled himself along the rocks.

Another blast of wind hit Ralof and he fell back, but he managed to pull himself forward. The elf was still going, which surprised him. By rights, Nords were resistant to cold, but Wood was freezing. The dark elf should be dead. There wasn't time to bode on that now, so instead he mustered his remaining strength and pushed forward, suddenly coming face to face with a stone wall.

The initial shock was replaced with relief, with flooded his body with a warm feeling. Ralof felt almost giddy. _Ha, screw the gods. _'Hey! Is this is?' Ralof screamed to the sky before grinning and moving past the wall, which was actually a pillar. He stumbled into a wide stone porch. Ahead of him, Jon and Valus were pushing open the massive stone doors to the temple, inlaid with some kind of dragon shit. It didn't matter, because he was safe. Ralof chuckled to himself and hurried to help.

The inside of the temple wasn't much warmer, but there was a brazier that the elf lit so they could get some warmth generated quickly. The heat sunk into Ralof's skin and he slumped down in the tiny hall, content. Visions of Riverwood came through his mind, dreams of summer, when he had picked berries with Hadvar, and hunted deer. He had never been very good at it, but it was a good memory anyway. Ralof smiled, but when he opened an eye he found Jon still standing by the stairs that led further into the temple.

'Oi, expedition leader! Sit down; you're making me feel weird.'

Jon nodded. 'The atmosphere is strange.'

Ralof sighed, rolling his eyes. 'And I think we know where that's coming from.'

'Further down,' Jon said, watching it keenly.

Wood shook his head in disbelief. What was the fun of mocking Jon if he didn't pick up on it? Ralof tried ignored him, but his curiosity got the better and he sat up, looking down the corridor. It was pitch black. 'How can you even see anything?' he asked.

Jon looked surprised. 'You can't?'

Ralof raised his eyebrows and shook his head. Stormcloak shrugged. 'You should get some rest,' the Carl told him.

'He's right.' Wood turned his head to regard Valus with a hostile glare. The elf ignored him. 'We need rest before we go further.'

'I wasn't aware that you were coming with us,' Jon said. The tone of his voice clearly questioned the elf's courage.

'Don't flatter yourself,' Valus replied coldly. 'I just want to make sure you don't die so I receive final payment.'

'And if I gave it to you now?'

The elf jerked his head at the door. 'I'm stuck here anyway.'

Jon nodded. 'We have no time for loose baggage.'

'Then why are you bringing Wood?' he asked.

Ralof drew his dagger, slighted by the insult. 'How about we have another game of "Nine Fingers"?' He wanted to see the elf pale.

'Enough!' Jon barked. 'Ralof, stay your hand. You, Valus; if you want to come, that's your business, but I won't be responsible for your fate.'

'But you'll bury me?' he asked, coolly. Jon nodded. 'Good enough.' He began to pull off his extra clothing and weapon belt, before covering himself in his coat and lying down.

Ralof looked at him, before raising his eyebrow to Jon, questioning his decision. Stormcloak nodded resolutely and Wood shook his head, unwrapping the fur from his body before lying down.

**He had no dreams. Only **shifting shapes rushed past him, slowly manifesting into a skeleton which grabbed his leg with an icy grip. Suddenly, Ralof was awake. He let out a cry as he saw a pair of icy blue eyes in the pitch black. He heard the rasp of steel and felt the grip on his leg. Without thinking he reached for his dagger, but it wasn't there. With a curse he realised that his weapon belt was by his side. Ralof scrambled for the steel, but then the thing was on him. It's hand locked around his throat and Wood let out a silent scream as glinting steel descended on him.

With a flash, it was knocked from the thing's grasp. Jon was there and he picked it up, slamming the thing against the wall, before slamming his own dagger into its throat. He let it drop and reached for Ralof's hand.

'What was that?' Wood spluttered, disorientated. He could hardly see; how the hell had Jon managed to react so easily in pitch blackness.

'A draugr,' he said shortly. 'I've seen them already, but that was years ago with Ulfric.' His tone turned quiet as he contemplated silently. Ralof thought the mood needed a pick up.

'With those blue eyes, I thought you had finally decided to give into your undeniable lust for me,' he said, in an indifferent tone.

That drew Jon out of his thoughts. 'You'd like that?' he asked, a little unsure.

'Nope. But you would.' He grinned and fumbled for his weapon belt, slowly pulling on his equipment and cloak. 'Speaking of gay men, where's Valus?'

'Here, and I don't appreciate that comment.'

'Not many people do,' Ralof shrugged. 'So, Chief,' he said, turning to what he thought was the direction of Jon. 'What do we do now?'

'Simple. We go further in.'

'Oh, right,' he agreed sarcastically. 'Why didn't I consider the option that will definitely kill us.'

'We'll survive, if we take it carefully,' Valus said. 'We'll also need light.'

'What happened to your tinder box?' Jon asked.

'It's gone. I can't find it.'

'The draugr might have taken it,' he considered.

'Oh yes,' Ralof agreed, sarcastically again. 'They were using the fire to work on their tans. I noticed that they were considerably,' he kicked the form of the dead man, which actually turned out to be Jon's foot; 'pale!'

Valus turned to him, his eyes glinting. Otherwise, he was indistinguishable. 'Would you just shut up for a second?'

Ralof was about to reply, but a hand, presumably Jon's caught him on the shoulder. 'We need to think,' Stormcloak said.

That triggered something in Wood's memory. 'Your sword,' he whispered. 'The light off the blade.'

What Ralof could see of Jon's eyes looked doubtful, but he drew the blade in a rush of steel. It gave off a dim light, revealing the room they were in slightly. It'll have to be good enough.

'I'll lead,' Jon said. It wasn't an offer, more an order. That was fine by Ralof though; Stormcloak obviously had some seriously good night vision. Ysold must have been feeding him a hell of a lot of carrots.

They descended cautiously. The elf drew his sword, and bounced it ever so slightly, annoying Ralof, who was behind him with his axe in hand. The room at the bottom of the stairs was unremarkable. It was round, with stone walls and rotting cloth strewn across the floor. But what _was_ remarkable was the smell. It hit Ralof's nostrils with the force of a fully grown Stormcloak. Even Jon gagged as he entered. Wood tried to breathe through his nose but that sent fire up them, causing him to recoil. Valus jerked his head, before glaring back at Ralof.

'What was tha-'

A large shape crashed into Valus. Ralof only had a second to curse before another draugr slammed into him, throwing the Housecarl against the wall. He dropped his axe, his head ringing. Ralof's senses came back quickly, fuelled by adrenaline, just in time to see the glint of a knife, heading towards his face. Wood dodged and the weapon scraped off the wall, while he drew his own dagger and slammed it into the draugr's chest. It buckled and fell. Ralof leapt over the body to see Valus wrestling with one, by the light of Kodaav, trying to reach for his sword. Wood ignored him, looking for Jon. It wasn't good.

Stormcloak had managed to throw over his first draugr, slamming Kodaav into his stomach, where it was now. But then one seemed to have grabbed him from behind. He was thrust against the wall as a third draugr aimed its sword for his head. Ralof didn't have time to think about the dark, or the impossibility of the shot; he threw. His dagger ripped through the dry, grey skin of the draugr's hand. It's sword dropped to the ground and Jon grabbed the undead Nord holding him, slamming its head viciously into the wall in a immense display of strength. In a burst of dust he drew Kodaav from its place in a corpse of a corpse, ripping the shining blade up through the third draugr's torso. It fell apart as Valus severed his opponent's head in another burst of grey dust.

They just stood panting for a second, before Ralof spoke, picking up his dagger and twirling it in his hands, and then motioning at the draugr. 'What are these again?' His question was directed at Jon; he knew he knew something. Valus watched with interest.

'They're undead; Nords who betrayed their kind during the dragon war.'

'How do you know this?' Valus asked, stepping closer, his expression hostile.

Jon drew himself up, and regarded the elf coldly. 'The Greybeards of High Hrothgar.' He held out Kodaav and started walking further into the temple. Valus watched him with a strange look, before catching Jon's shoulder. Stormcloak suddenly whipped round and pushed him against the wall, but let him go almost immediately. Valus didn't look too surprised by any of this though. 'Your voice should have been enough.' He sighed. 'You are Jon Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, 'the Dragonborn', aren't you?'

Stormcloak nodded. Pretence was useless. 'My Housecarl, Ralof Wood,' he said, gesturing at Ralof.

'I can see why you didn't use your real name, Jarl Stormcloak. I would have done the same.'

'In what situation,' scoffed Ralof. 'It's not like you're a long lost member of House Redoran or something.'

Valus shook his head disdainfully. 'But I'd still do the same.' He turned to Jon. 'You clearly don't prize intelligence in your Housecarl, my Jarl.' The formal address came out with difficulty.

'He's intelligent, but tactless.' Ralof wanted to complain, but it was true, so he just shrugged.

'Someone has to tell the truth in a court,' Wood said instead.

Jon didn't reply; he just moved forward, further inside.

They walked for about another ten minutes, watching the tombs carefully. Nothing came out, but that didn't make Ralof feel any better. Eventually they emerged from the endless corridors, into a huge chamber.

Ralof's breath was taken away as he looked around in awe. Pillars held up the vaulted roof and a huge set of steps led to an area raised above all else. It was majestic, but dark. At the top of the steps was a figure of a man, chanting ancient words, as a blackness rushed in from the ceiling. Jon gritted his jaw and ascended up the steps. The man, a Nord, heard them and glanced behind him, before returning to his work, holding his hands in front of him. He was dressed in shimmering deep brown robes. Gold raced up through the fabric, if it was fabric. He wore no armour, but a sword hung at his side. It was long, straight, with a curved golden guard. It rested in a brown leather sheath. He turned as Jon reached the top of the stairs.

'Jon Stormcloak. Welcome.' Ralof was struck by his appearance. He was pale, almost deathly so. Light fog blew out of nose when he exhaled, like it does in cold weather. He was tall, but slim and looked lithe, but his brown hair was streaked with white. But it was his eyes, like Jon's, that captured your attention. A pulsing brown, rimmed in molten gold, just as Jon's were a radiating blue, rimmed in shining silver. His voice cut the air just like Stormcloak's.

'Who are you?' Jon asked. Everyone else was dumbstruck.

He tilted his head curiously. 'Don't you know?' Stormcloak didn't answer. 'I thought the Greybeards would have taught you something.' He looked bored suddenly. 'No matter,' he said dismissively. 'Nii los daanik. I'm sure they taught you enough.'

'Your name,' Jon demanded.

He tutted. 'Manners, Jarl Stormcloak. You are Jon Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, Lord of Eastmarch, Grandmaster of the Blades, Warden of the East, Marshal of the Old Armies, Dragon Master?'

Jon didn't nod. 'You obviously know my name. Give me yours,' he said. But Ralof could tell he was unnerved.

'Peace, Dragon Master. In time.'

'What does that mean, "Dragon Master"?' Jon asked, his tone hostile.

The Nord sighed. 'Really?' he asked patronisingly. 'It was Alduin's title. You won it from him, Dragon Master.' He smiled grimly. 'I'm sure he wants it back.'

'I don't want it,' Jon said.

'But you have it,' the Nord snapped, stepping forward, before he regained his composure. 'You want my name, still?' he asked. Jon nodded. The Nord smiled again. 'You have the honour of addressing Servien of Clan Quentwind, the First of his name, King of Solstheim, Lord of the Nords, High Priest of the Dragonlords, Protector of the Sossedov.' He mocked a bow. 'At your service. I believe it's still custom to bow to a king, Jarl Stormcloak.'

'True Kings,' Jon replied icily. 'Not you.'

Quentwind looked furious, and he uttered a few words. Suddenly a force hit Ralof's mind. Pure fear. It pressed against his mind relentlessly, subduing all his senses. Next to him Valus was shivering, the whites of his eyes showing. Otherwise the room was silent. And then, the scrape of steel. Ralof's eyes flickered up; Jon was still standing, watching the other Nord coldly, Kodaav in his hand.

'Come, come, Jon. Please remember courtesies.'

Stormcloak glanced at his companions. 'What do you want?'

The other Nord considered him carefully before turning back to his work. 'Are you here to stop me?'

'What do you think?'

'I think you're curious.' His long robes rustled as he moved. 'I think you couldn't resist the chance to find out what was happening.' Jon's gaze didn't flicker. 'No? Fine, but know this; I do hate to kill my own kind.' With that he drew his sword, a pale blade rimmed in flickering gold, faint, but there on the edges, and then gone. _Its skyforge_, Ralof realised with a shock before his mind turned back to the other problem; who was he, really?

The Nord swept forward towards Jon and brought down his blade. Jon blocked but stumbled under the force. _How could he be that strong? _Ralof thought, before the fear pressed down again.

Jon pushed it up and swung his own sword at the Nord's stomach but Servien parried easily and grabbed Jon, thrusting his head forward. Stormcloak took the head-butt, dazed, and then the Nord kicked him. With a cry Jon fell back, rolling across the ground. He let out a groan, blood dripping from his head, but raised himself; fury was in his eyes. Real fear entered Ralof as he watched them face each other again.

Jon opened his mouth and released a shout. Energy swept from his mouth, slamming into the Nord, who cried out before it hit him. A crack rang through the air and he stumbled, but not enough for someone who was hit by the thu'um. With a gasp he shouted, and threw some small knives from his belt. They spun into Jon who blocked one, but two caught him in his arm and the other in his hip. He bellowed in pain, looking up at his opponent in disbelief. Ralof stared as well, real fear replacing the fake one. _He's another Dragonborn! How can that be? _

Jon was just as surprised, but he hid it well, clutching his wounds. With a cry he launched himself forward, swinging his blade furiously. The other Dragonborn parried, stepping back and countering to Jon's leg. He lifted it, stepping forward, past his guard, and behind the other Nord before swinging his blade down on his opponent's back. By with a graceful side-swing Servien blocked it and they held it there, struggling against each other. Jon seemed to have the advantage in strength and he grinned bloodily as he pushed the other Dragonborn down, their blades scraping across each other with a sharp screeching.

With a curse the other Nord turned the blades, slamming his hilt into Jon and stepping back to stab him. Stormcloak blocked it and threw his weight into the Nord, making his stumble. Before he could regain his balance Jon smashed his hilt across Quentwind's face and drew his dagger, using the close quarters to trap his opponent's sword. He thrust the dagger forward quickly but the other Dragonborn turned it on his golden gauntlet and then swung his fist across Jon's stomach. The heavy metal, jagged at the end, scraped across the chainmail, somehow ripping it viciously. Blood started dropping from Stormcloak's stomach, and he let out a gasp, sweat dotting his brow. With a vicious cry Servien head-butted Jon again, and then drew his blade free from its lock by Stormcloak's arm, opening Jon's steel and flesh in a rush of silvery blood. The Jarl let out an animalistic cry before clenching his teeth shut. The other Dragonborn looked him over before releasing a shout. Ice cold spikes drove into Jon, tearing his clothes and armour. He dove forward with a feral look, slashing at the Nord who blocked the first blow and second before the third caught his arm, spilling scarlet blood over his flowing robes. His was dotted with golden flecks which glittered as it fell.

Quentwind grimaced and barked words of draconic. The world slowed, everything becoming quick and heavy. Ralof's vision dimmed as the fear pressed further into his mind. But he ignored it because now there was really something to fear; Jon's life.

Servien dove forward, slow, but faster than Jon. Amazingly, Stormcloak blocked the first blow, but the second blow, a punch, caught his jaw. He stumbled, blood flying up in a surreal display of magic. Quentwind's fist thrust forward again, as time sped up. It connected with explosive force and Jon screamed; his ribs were broken. The other Dragonborn slammed his fist across his face, and then kicked out Jon's leg from under him while slamming his fist into his stomach, throwing Stormcloak to the ground. As he drove Jon down, the Jarl unleashed a shout, obviously instinctive. It threw Quentwind up a metre or so, and he landed heavily, bouncing a little.

Ralof willed Jon to stand, but he didn't. He himself tried to move, but the fear assaulted his mind more fiercely, driving him back into his own mind. The other Dragonborn stood, and saw his defeated opponent. He smiled, wiped blood from his lip and stepped forward with ease, sheathing his sword, and not with the movement of a man who had just fought a vicious battle.

He leaned down into Jon, his voice low. But his carrying speech reached Ralof's ears. 'I expected more.' He smiled arrogantly. 'You asked me what I was doing?' He pulled up Jon, who let out a cry. Quentwind slammed his fist into Stormcloak's face, and dragged him to the shifting blackness at the far end of the dias. 'You see this?' He pulled up Jon's head. 'Do you know who this is?'

Stormcloak was almost unconscious, and shook his head weakly, spitting out blood. 'This, Dragon Master-' He smiled, his look arrogant and satisfied; ready to hurt. 'Dragon Master? I just defeated you; I think that makes me "Dragon Master"? It does,' he answered himself, proudly. 'Anyway, _Dovahkiin_, a pathetic name,' he added; 'this is your enemy. You remember him surely. Go on, guess.' His eyes lit up with a manic light.

Jon didn't raise his head.

He looked disappointed. 'Oh come on.' Jon slumped in his grip. 'This, Dovahkiin, is Alduin.'

Cold fear, solid, impenetrable fear, rushed through Ralof, stilling his thoughts and bones. He could feel the evil presence seeping from the blackness.

'With your strength, he will be able to fully form. And then, he may fulfil his destiny.'

'He's the World Eater,' Jon choked. 'How would his return help you?'

Servien looked at him patronisingly. 'Really? You don't actually believe the world will be destroyed utterly. No, I will be alive to rule as joor for the new races that take up Tamriel. I will be merciful, harsh, powerful, and just. Alduin will be our god, and you, Jon Stormcloak, will be a memory of the past. Blown to ashes,' he stopped, before lowing his voice, so Ralof only just caught his words; 'just as I was.' His voice wasn't pure anymore, but laced with venom. 'I'll see you in two months, Dovahkiin.' And the fear uttered engulfed Ralof, sending him into a deep, dark blackness.

**I hope you liked that. Please review, and that's that. Hopefully the meeting between Jon and Servien, or Miraak, was good. **


	4. The Priests

**Thank you Miraak, for that crappy pain you put me through. Finally, it's done. HereLies, I couldn't have done this, or made Miraak without you, so thank you. **

**I'm sorry, but its been so long I have no idea what happened. Everyone who reviewed has my thanks and if you're really annoyed I didn't thank you personally, then PM message me and beat me up. Sorry, and thanks. **

**FINALLY! F**K YOU MIRAAK. I **_**really**_** hope its good. **

_**Before**_

**Servien Quentwind**

**Servien Quentwind strode through the **doors of the moot, his robes billowing out behind him. He brushed back his white hair, and regarded the men in the room for a second. They were all Nords, tall and young looking. Each wore a robe of a different colour; red, blue, gold, brown, all deep and dark, finely woven, trimmed nicely. The people who had made these were the best Solstheim had to offer, but even that hadn't been good enough sometimes. Servien's own was pure white; dazzling and pure. His hair was snowy as well, and his well trimmed beard, but his face showed little age on it.

'Ah, Miraak. You've finally seen fit to join us.' It was Vahlok; they all had draconic names, as Dragon Priests, and were all referred to by those, without exception. Many of the Priests refused to even acknowledge that they were human anymore. Vahlok himself was prime among them, the most powerful among their ranks. He held the greatest land, the entire north, swarming with people to do his bidding, but the arrogance that came with it, and the cruelty, was his own doing.

'Yes, Vahlok. I was,' Servien thought carefully; 'caught up.' The truth was that he was reluctant to meet with the other Priests; it was rare that a meeting they had ever gone well. Every man's will here was as strong as iron, and proud to match, qualities the dragons had prized as they chose them; their meetings rarely went well.

'Then don't get caught up next time,' Vahlok said sharply. 'Take your place.'

Servien fumed and shot him a burning stare. 'I don't remember being under your command, Vahlok. Leave that to your people, if any still live on your land.' His placed his shimmering silver staff by his seat, and sat, but Vahlok wasn't done.

He smiled. 'My people are fine, Miraak. I would look to yours instead.'

Servien frowned, feeling like there was a trap closing around him. 'What do you mean?'

Vahlok smiled again, his eyes glimmering with sick amusement. 'You don't know? This isn't a surprise, I suppose, but it would explain why it's happening.'

Servien looked around quickly. The other Priests were regarding him smugly, and his embarrassment clouded his thoughts. 'Tell me,' he barked, but now he sounded petulant and weak. Vahlok was among equals here, even if he didn't recognise it, but he liked to assert his authority in any way possible, so he kept applying the pressure. 'I assumed you knew, being the great Miraak, Lord of Raven's Rock.' He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. 'No? A pity.' Vahlok looked around at them all, and settled back. 'Does anyone else know?' The other Priests nodded, and he returned his smile to Miraak. 'You do seem misinformed.'

'You speak to the dragons! It is your duty to inform us of any problems there might be,' Servien growled.

'Fine,' he snapped. 'Your population is beginning to revolt. If you don't stop it, Miraak, they might overrun your province, and you know what the dragons would do then.' He leaned in close and grabbed Servien's robes. 'You _do_ know what they would do, to all of us,' he hissed, before throwing Miraak back in his seat. 'So, I suggest you fix it, and quickly. As for the rest of you, I have nothing more to say.'

Miraak's eyes blazed as they left. He could question why they had all been summoned, but he knew well enough and wasn't prepared to look more of a fool for asking; Vahlok enjoyed finding any way to make himself look better among the others, often at their own expense. Should one of his subjects ever been powerful to bother with, he acted quickly. They had watched as he had flayed his last prisoner alive. There was no method to the madness, only what was left of a power hungry Nord residing behind his mask, the one given to him by the dragons themselves. Vahlok always wore it around his subjects, hating to reveal himself as human, if not in soul, then in person. The other Priests were no better, though they kept their own activities to themselves. Vahlok was the showman among them, that was certain.

Servien strode from the chamber, tired of it all. One day, he would see Vahlok beneath his boot, but unfortunately the arrogance had come with power, and far more than Quentwind would ever control. And so, like freedom to one of their subjects, it had become a hopeless dream. No, Servien didn't delude himself. They had been chosen because they were strong, cruel, and unflinching in the ways they kept the dragon's peace. In exchange for fantastic power this band of Nords had given up their humanity to serve the dragons. They had been made immortal, but most of their power resided in their masks, which they kept with them at all times. Each held their magic, and their will and as the dragons said, they were too weak to directly imbued with this power, so other ways had been found. The masks were the most elegant way of doing this, but the purpose was clear; they were the dragon's failsafe. Miraak had never thought of what would happen should they lose their masks, or see them break. Likely as not, they would die, and quickly, but there was a part of him that wondered if they would linger, and live on as an immortal, weaker, but alive. Servien had never given the matter much thought anyway; the idea of losing his mask was as bad as losing an arm. It could never happen.

In any case, the Priests ruled Solstheim for the dragons, ensuring the peace was kept, no matter how cruel. They were feared, but it was the surest way to succeed; to be loved was volatile, and could not be trusted to hold such an iron grip as they did over the island. _The world is split into two types of people; those strong enough to take power, and those weak enough to lose it, _Servien reflected cynically. It wasn't Quentwind's ideal society, but the people were too stupid and weak to ever rule alone. The Priests were the only way, and their rule was better by far than the dragons.

Servien let out a frustrated breath, still darkly embarrassed by Vahlok, and pulled his robes up, leaving the massive temple they called home, built by their subjects, and into the clear winter air. It hit his head like a blunt axe, but at least it brought clarity back into the world, giving him time to reflect on his troubles. Quentwind hated them all, especially Vahlok. _Self pretentious bastard. _The venom in his look would have burnt away the other Dragon Priest, had he been there.

Servien started trudging through the snow, heading down the steps and onto a wide porch that overlooked the whole of Solstheim. His eyes cut through the snow easily, something he had always been able to do, so he could pick out villages and towns that were scattered across the landscape. Servien let out a frustrated breath as he contemplated his task; it would be easy, but the effort was beneath him. Sending someone else to do it though would just encourage more resistance, which would be worse in the long run. He had no choice but to go there himself. At least that way, there would be some small lenience for those rebels, even if it was only a quick death. _Justice is harsh. No one was ever punished who didn't truly deserve it. _After all, these rebels made it worse for everyone; if the dragons decided things were getting out of control, everyone would suffer far worse than under Servien.

'You shouldn't tempt him so,' a voice said. Servien turned to see Gahlok, another of the Priests, one of the older ones.

'He provoked me,' Quentwind snapped.

Gahlok made his way up to Servien. He was wearing his bronze mask, but the eyes, visible through their thin slits, betrayed his amusement. 'Not the way I saw it. You know Vahlok's harsh.'

'Too harsh, some might say,' the other priest replied crisply. 'And arrogant beyond measure.'

'He needs to be, if we are to keep order.'

'Keep order?' Servien asked, his brow furrowing. 'It is not required to be that harsh to keep the people down, and you know it.'

Gahlok shook his head. 'One touch of mercy, and they will rise up. We cannot allow that,' he stressed. 'Sometimes there are those who wish only for chaos. You understand, don't you? They are vicious people, only seeking power, to use it against all of _us_.' He grabbed Servien's shoulder. 'You are powerful, and harsh, but fair, Miraak. Perhaps the best of us. Don't fall prey to pity though.' And then he strode off, into the snow.

Quentwind watched him go darkly. The words were hardly encouraging. He hated having to deal with the people, but with a sigh he trudged off to prepare. It paid to make an impression after all.

**Raven Rock was a small settlement, **for a place so important. Servien observed it from his horse and he trotted up to the gates that surrounded the place. He wasn't nervous about a possible mutiny; his power was far superior to any other, but he couldn't help but keep a wary eye out for any trouble on the road. The fields looked fine though, if unmanned. Servien frowned; that needed to change. Behind him followed a huge body of men, fanatics, all armoured in mail, with shining weapons and masks made in a crude imitation of his own, which Miraak wore now. It was golden, and covered his face entirely. Tentacles like spikes curling from the sides.

'Halt. Who goes thei…' A sentry stopped mid sentence as he recognised the Dragon Priest, and then he stepped down, babbling apologies and sounding a horn. The gate opened and soldiers rushed through, forming an honour guard in lines on either side of the Priest, so that he could pass between them. Servien stepped his horse through at the head of his massive column, smiling with satisfaction. The Thane was waiting inside, appointed to rule in Miraak's stead, and he bowed, soling his expensive clothes on the mud.

'My lord! It is truly a pleasure to see you. Is the welcome to your taste?' Miraak found it was often better not to answer, and the Thane didn't press it, instead drawing back behind him. 'Will you come with me to the longhouse?' Miraak nodded, dismounting, and the Thane gestured to some people who started rushing around fearfully, dusting steps, a row of guards, and then opening the longhouse doors for him to enter first. Miraak stopped and looked around the town before entering; every door was barred shut, and the people that where on the street kept their heads to the ground, not daring to make eye contact, something Servien did find somewhat respectfully excessive, but he didn't correct them otherwise. The Thane and his men waited silently for him to look around, and then followed him as he entered, keeping a careful distance from the back of his robe, so as not to accidentally trip him.

The Thane directed him down the main hall and into a room off to the left. It was a small solar, with a round table and two goblets. A servant waited at the side and the Thane waited for Servien to sit, before asking his opinion about ordering some wine. The bulk of Miraak's guard waited outside, while a few followed him and stop silently in the corners, like masked shadows. Servants swarmed around them, waiting on his pleasure anxiously but he ignored them.

'You are here to talk about the uprising, my lord?' The Thane asked tentatively; he was smart enough not to blabber excuses.

'I am, or was. I don't see anything wrong here,' Servien said, leaning forward, watching the other man icily.

'No, well,' the Thane stammered; 'they hide, you see. It's an underground thing.'

'Is it?' Servien mused. 'I still find it disappointing that I had to be called here.'

The Thane began to sweat. 'I tried, my lord. Truly I did.' His eyes told the truth, and his quivering lip made Miraak sign inwardly.

Quentwind raised his eyebrows beneath his mask. 'Fine,' he snapped. 'Tell me what you know.'

'They recognise every man I send, my lord. I dare not go myself, for fear of assassination. They've already killed my son, who went in my place.'

That stung the Priest a little. 'Your heir?' Servien asked. The Thane nodded and Miraak's eyes softened. 'I'm sure he died well,' he said stiffly. There was silence, and Servien stood. 'I'll deal with this.'

'Alone, my lord?'

'Yes, alone,' Servien confirmed in a tone that brooked no argument. And like that, the meeting was over. He left the room, out into the night air, heading for the inn, the most likely place for gossip. Quentwind was acutely aware of his robes and appearance and so with a tap of his staff, his robes exploded into a brown colouring while his staff took on the appearance of a mottled stick. Servien twisted his head in discomfit at the change. He motioned to his guard who remained still, now ignoring him as if he was just another man, as directed by a simple hand gesture. _Disciplined fanatics; a rare breed_.

Servien quickly lost himself in-between streets to shake any pursuers stupid enough to follow him. His mask had transformed into a hood, and he pulled it tighter over his head to disguise his features, before entering the inn.

His first thought was for how noisy it was; the sound assaulted his ears like an army. Once he had shaken that off, he noticed the people around him. They all looked shady, and dirty. Servien regarded them with an arrogant air, before moving to sit at one of the tables. He ignored the bartender who moved to serve him, instead casting his brown eyes around the room, the gold rims gone in his current disguise. It didn't take long to spot the men he wanted; they were huddled in a corner, trying to be silent. But it didn't matter; Servien could tell they were involved just by looking at them. His ears could pick out their voices from here and the shifty looks, the muted voices and the daggers at their side suggested something illegal. Even so, to be doing something so bold in the middle of an inn was alarming to say the least. _They must be confident in their uprising_, Servien reflected. He had no idea where they expected to gain support; the people would never rise up. The Priests had done their job too well for that.

The two men were standing now, and they swept from the inn. Quentwind followed them, and was pleased when they aimed for an alley. He quickened his step and came up behind one of them, grasping his shoulder, pulling him back. He didn't need to be quiet anymore; he had them. Quick as a snake, the man swept round, slashing his dagger out across Servien's chest, starling the Priest. Blood began to soak his robe, flecked with gold, and Servien stumbled back, stunned. The Priests, despite all their power, could still be killed by mortal steel; even so, this was the first time he had felt its bite, and it _hurt_.

Servien looked up, dumbstruck, as the dagger thrust forward, intending to end him. Quentwind noted the man's savage expression, and time slowed down as he twisted. The dagger punched into the wall of the house behind him, and Quentwind unleashed his fear and anger in a massive blast of white light. It slammed into both men, blowing them back, burning them slightly as well. Servien's robes had returned to their shimmering white, and he surveyed them furiously as they sprawled on the floor, annoyed by the way he was injured.

One of the men tried to raise himself, but Servien slammed his staff into his head, killing him. The blood ran off the edge as the Dragon Priest picked up the second men, lifting him from the ground with a single hand. He struggled, but he was no match for Servien's power.

'What are you planning?' he began, his words laced with venom. The man shifted, trying to break free. 'You know who I am.' That was all that was required to make his point.

The man choked back words, but he wasn't scared. Rather, he looked up at the sky, grinning. Servien barely had time to frown before a huge dragon dropped down onto the houses, shattering the wood. Huge splinters slammed into Servien and he was thrown back, crying out in pain. His staff had fallen from his grip, and Quentwind bit back the agony the massive splinters had caused, reaching for his sword. With a bark of unfamiliar words, it was ripped from his grip. The dragon's head moved closer until Servien could smell its foul breath. It didn't take long to realise that this dragon was an outcast, the lowest of the breed, shunned by the others. Even the Dragon Priests ignored them, yet here one was, raised over him. It's blue scales shimmered, and Servien bit back fear, but remained defiant, thrusting out his chin. 'The moment you kill me, I will haunt you to death.' Another power of the Priests; the killer would be haunted to suicide.

The dragon snorted with laughter, ignoring the threat. 'My name is Sahrotaar. I am at your service… Miraak'

**Please review. Please? **


	5. Dark Souls

**Another chapter! Much quicker than lat time. **

**The thanks; To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! They are in it right now! **

**By the way, the dream was fun to write and has some interesting things to mull over about Jon. Also, I'm pretty sure Ulfric wouldn't be so crude, but Dream Ulfric is, (seeing as this is Jon's imagination.) Just saying, in case anyone picks up on that. Also, well… you'll see. **

**Jarl Jon Stormcloak **

**It had been easy to **sneak Ysold into his room. She had come willingly, giggling as they avoided the guards. Jon Stormcloak closed the door gently, glancing out of his room for any sign of Father or Mother, but they were nowhere to be seen.

Jon turned back to Ysold with a triumphant grin. She was on the bed, watching him with a smile. She can't have been more than sixteen, about the age she had been when they had first met, Jon thought, but that was fuzzy now. It felt strange to think like that. He pushed the thought aside quickly, focusing on the matter which had dominated his mind for the past week. He and Ysold had been waiting a while to finally get down to it, and now it was time. Jon couldn't even keep in his excited thoughts as he moved closer to her.

When Father had made the match, he had been insistent they wait until the wedding day, but neither of them was that patient. Ysold was the daughter of a Thane, a suitable match for the Thegn of Windhelm, and Jon had adored her since the moment he had seen her. Being the male son to the Jarl of Windhelm, he had been given his own choice of bride. Jon couldn't even describe how happy he had been when Ysold's father had agreed to the proposal. She had wanted it to, but it had never been a matter for debate. To refuse the Jarl's son, and firstborn at that, would have the stupidest political move ever made by a Thane.

Jon moved over Ysold, grinning manically, but she pressed a gentle hand to his chest. 'Slow down. We'll get to it in due time.'

Stormcloak moved back, a little abashed. It wasn't normally like him to be so forthright, but then he was never his usual self around Ysold. It was just one of the reasons he loved her.

Ysold gave him a sympathetic look, with a hint of good natured annoyance. 'No, no, I don't mind.' She drew him close. 'I just wanted to make sure we savour this before,' she looked diffident; 'before, you know…'

Jon nodded, smiling. 'I know.' He moved over her, pressing her down. His body shuddered as he ran his hands over her waist, and she gave him a dazzling, excited smile. Jon could barely comprehend how lucky he was to be with her. Suddenly, she pushed him over, so she was on top. It was funny, considering how tiny she was compared to him. Jon was 6'6, as tall as Father. He was hoping to outgrow him soon, because he knew that would annoy him. Ysold was only 5'8, an average height for a Nord woman. Jon laughed gently as he considered this, and Ysold pulled back, slightly affronted.

'What is it?'

He smiled, shaking his head gently. 'I can't describe it. It's good;' he added, and Ysold rolled her eyes.

'Just be quiet and kiss me.'

Jon was about to oblige, when a noise caught his ears. A panting sound. Jon's blood froze, and he tried to quickly kiss Ysold and distract her, but she pulled back, a frown on her face.

'What's that?'

Jon glanced at the wall behind him, and Ysold followed his eyes. 'Nothing,' Stormcloak said quickly. 'Just forget about it.'

Ysold crawled up along his body so that she was closer to the wall. Her breasts were right above Jon's eyes, which proved particularly distracting. She snapped him back to reality.

'It sounded like…' he frowned again. 'Er, Jon; who's in that room opposite you.' Jon tried to retreat into himself in embarrassment, but she pulled him out of it. 'Come on, Jon. How weird can it be?'

Stormcloak was desperately uncomfortable, trapped between Ysold and… it. He muttered a response, but Ysold raised her eyebrows, demanding an intelligible answer. 'My parents,' Jon mumbled.

Ysold pulled back, so that she was kneeling over him. 'Your parents? That _is_ weird…'

'It doesn't matter,' Jon said, pulling her back down. 'It's just my parents.'

Ysold gave him an amused look. 'It's still weird.'

Jon soldiered on heroically. 'They're in the other room, and we won't even hear them after we get going.'

'Oh, so we'll be making a lot of noise?' Ysold asked, smiling.

Stormcloak flushed. 'Maybe.' He shifted uncomfortably, and looked up at her with a pleading expression.

Ysold sighed, but she was grinning now. 'Men.' And then she leaned down and kissed him.

**Everything shifted into a black **air.Jon found himself standing by the door to Windhelm's main hall, where the huge dining table had been set up. He entered the room wearily, to see Father sitting alone, eating. He was a huge man, and tall. His blond hair was full and thick, and pushed back. Jon's own hair was loose, and strands fell in his eyes as he took his place next to his Father.

'Good morning,' he began awkwardly.

Ulfric looked up from his bacon, holding his dagger so that it pointed at Jon. Clearly it was not a deliberate gesture. 'Ready for today?'

Stormcloak shrugged. 'I guess.'

Father smiled. 'It'll be fine. We'll hunt a few bears and bring back your Ysold a skin.' He leaned closer conspiratorially. 'Women love a good skin. It helped me this one time with your mother-'

'Father, I don't want to hear this,' Jon told him firmly.

'Suit yourself,' Ulfric shrugged, sitting back. 'You're going to go in lone wolf, well that's fine then.'

Jon raised his eyebrows. 'Lone wolf?'

Father nodded. 'Believe me; women are always reluctant to give up their maidenheads, so it's kind of like a bribe.'

'Talos, Father,' Jon exclaimed, pushing his chair back. 'I didn't come here to hear this.'

'Uh huh,' Ulfric agreed. 'What did you come here for?'

'Food,' Jon said.

He dropped the façade. 'You'll need to get your strength back, I'm sure, after what I heard today,' Father said amicably.

Jon put on a blank look, but couldn't keep it up as dismay rushed through him. 'You know?'

Father smiled. 'Of course I do. She's a beautiful girl, and you're lucky to be tapping that.'

Jon buried his head in his hands. 'Talos,' he cursed in embarrassment.

'And here she is,' Ulfric announced. 'My future daughter-in-law!'

Jon jerked up, knocking over a jug of wine. 'Ysold's here.' He looked around wildly until he spotted her coming forward timidly towards them. 'Ysold! We were just having a guy chat. Nothing about tapping, er, fucking, ah shit.' He buried his head in his hands again, trying to ignore everything.

Ulfric stood. 'She is truly beautiful, son.' He moved closer to her. 'Truly brit, _beautiful,_' he muttered. Jon jerked up at that; Father sound cold, and arrogant. Evil almost.

The younger Stormcloak reached out a hand. 'Father, wait-'

'I think I'd like to try her,' he growled, pushing Ysold back violently, before suddenly leaping forward in a cloud of black mist. And then Alduin was there, his huge form filling the throne room, his scales black as his heart, his red eyes burning into Jon's own. 'Yes, she will do nicely.'

'No!' Stormcloak pulled himself up, but Alduin launched his tail into him, throwing the Dragonborn across the room. Jon fell to the hard stone in a rush of pain, and groaned.

'What's the matter, Dovahkiin? Lost your thu'um?' Alduin taunted.

It was true; Jon's voice was gone; he had no thu'um. He was about to sink into despair, but Ysold brought him back.

'Jon, help me!'

He looked up, his eyes alight with determination and fury. 'Release her, Alduin. This is between you and me.'

The black dragon's eyes twinkled manically. 'Nid, I don't think so.'

Jon roared out and raced forward. Alduin swung his tail across the ground, but Stormcloak dived over it. He rolled, only to be hit by one of Alduin claws. It ripped across his shoulder, but the wound was superficial. He whirled around in time to catch Alduin's backhanded return blow with the same claws. It slammed into him with impossible force, but Jon stopped it anyway, even though the effort slid him across the stone floor by several feet. Alduin tried to bite Stormcloak with a roar, but he dodged, and made for the claws holding Ysold.

She was crying, but Jon couldn't move them. He needed a weapon, but he had nothing. He let out a cry of anger and impatience, before jumping and kicking off Alduin other clawed paw as it came at him, so he was able to land on top of the dragon's head. Jon scrabbled for purchase, and heaved himself up, but the black dragon wasn't done. A line of draconic echoed from his mouth and the ceiling of the Palace of King's collapsed. Chunks began to fall, slowly at first, as if mocking Jon on their inevitability, but then faster. Some landed on Alduin, but they shattered upon his scales. Jon wasn't so lucky.

He tried to move aside, still on Alduin's head, but a fair sized chunk caught him on his shoulder. A bursting pain rippled throughout his body and he fell, collapsing to the cold stone floor. Alduin raised himself over Jon, laughing.

'You knew you could never have beaten me. Not forever, Dovahkiin. Hin kah fen kos bonaar.' He started laughing again, as Jon's strength fled from him, deserting him. He couldn't stand, but he caught a glimpse of Ysold, shrieking and crying, as he fell into the blackness. His anger rose up, pushing aside the dark mist, but it wasn't enough. Alduin saw him try to get up, laughed, and a claw ripped across his face.

**Jarl Jon Stormcloak woke in **a burst of faaz, _agony_. It stilled and he breathed hard, before it returned suddenly and he let out a scream. It was raging through him, laying waste to everything it met, destroying his skin, veins, everything. He let out a sharp winch as it fizzed through him, before it returned and Jon thrust himself into down and let out another cry. And then, like the sun slowly running across an icy land, it was gone. It faded away and Jon remained still, not hoping to reactivate it through too much movement.

When he was sure it was gone, and Stormcloak slumped down, exhausted. His nose was blocked and he felt mildly kras, _sick_. _That's probably to be expected. _The humiliation of his fight with Miraak came back to him, and tried to push it away, to no avail. _What have I done? _He had been so confident, so arrogant, but Odahviing had been right; they were up against a far more dangerous threat than either of them could possibly have imagined. _Alduin, alive? _Cold fear raced through the Dragonborn. With Miraak at his side, he could do anything. Jon would be powerless; after all, he had been bested easily. He had stood no chance in the wake of the other Dragonborn. The memory made him still sicker, and it was only then that he actually took in his surroundings.

He was lying on an uncomfortable straw bed, quite unlike the one he had in Windhelm, but almost exactly like his original in the farm. The room around him was solid, but cosy. Horns and trinkets held along the walls, and books rested on shelves. A fus, _fire_, was crackling away merrily in one corner, and his door was closed. _Where in oblivion? _

Jon pushed himself up; his body was sore, but not unbearably so. He let out a low breath and looked around, wondering where Ralof was, and how they had got here, or if the other Nord was indeed here. There was only one way to find out, and Jon wanted to be ready if he was going to have to confront an unknown. His throat had healed nicely, and with delight he found Kodaav, sheath and all, propped up against a cabinet by his bed, along with his dagger. Another look around the room revealed his clothes, and armour, badly worn and ripped from the fight with Miraak. Beside them were new ones, fur boots, a shirt, jacket and long coat, all made of brownish leather with fur around the neckline in the case of the coat.

Jon pulled himself up and quickly dressed, carefully putting on the clothes he had been given, murmuring a word of draconic to check for any poisons or enchantments. There was nothing, except a sharp animal smell, which Jon had to work past as he pulled on the shirt. He fastened the jacket with the string belt, and then reached for his own equipment.

By the time he was ready, he felt stronger, but hungry. There was nothing else for it; it was time to face his hosts. Jon Stormcloak pushed open the door, to find himself in a long hall, with a fire burning in the middle. There were chairs along the side, and skins on the wooden walls. It was all sturdily built, and majestic in its own way. Jon edged further into it, his hand on Kodaav.

'Welcome, stranger. Would you care to sit?'

Stormcloak whirled around to face a woman in her early thirties, quite pretty, with brown hair pulled back and almond eyes. She had the hard look of a survivor, which reminded Jon sharply of Delphine, the Blade who betrayed him, but her mouth and posture were far more accommodating, and relaxed. Instantly, Jon was on his guard, but he moved forward anyway and sat without a word. The woman continued to stoke the fire as she had been doing before, and watched him curiously. They sat in silence, before she spoke.

'My name is Fanari, daughter of Skaf, Strongvoice. I am the leader of the Skaal here, because that's where you are, Protector of my People, and Defender of our Secrets. You're name, stranger?'

Jon bit his lip, reluctant like all Nords to give away his name. Yet, she had honoured hers with his, and something told him that she knew enough about him already. 'Drem yol lok, Fanari Skafmon. I am Jon, Ulfricsson, Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, Marshal of the Old Armies, Warden of the East and Lord of Eastmarch. I am also Dragonborn, Slayer of Alduin, Lord Master of the Dovah, called Dovahkiin. Now, you know me, where am I?'

'In due time, Jon Stormcloak.' She mused upon his name. 'You have an old line, very old. Mine reaches back to the First Era too, but we do not often receive such distinguished visitors, Jarl Jon. Now, as for where you are, you are in Skaal Village. You may have heard of us?' She watched him carefully now, as if determining something.

Luckily, Jon had been taught this by the Greybeards, many years ago. It took a while to try and recall it, but eventually he managed. 'A group of Nords committed to living in the wilderness.'

Fanari nodded. 'Yes, exactly. Now,' she held up a hand; 'as for why you are here. One of our number found three people crawling through the snow not a mile from the Temple of Miraak. One was a Dunmer…' _Bloody elf, _Jon thought angrily. He didn't like Valus; he had too much to hide, and couldn't be trusted. 'The other two were you, and another. He has blond hair-'

'That would be Ralof, my Housecarl. He's a noble Nord,' Jon added pointedly.

Fanari smiled wanly. 'Don't fear, Jon, we have not harmed him. He is asleep. The elf is awake, but refuses to leave until you have woken. Your,' she tasted the name; 'Ralof, woke up two days ago, and has watched you ever since.' Worry flashed through Jon, as to how long they had been here, and for Ysold and his children. 'You have been here five days, Ulfricsson.' She pushed around the coals a little before looking back at Jon. 'Now, I think I need to know what happened, and what you were doing in the Temple of Miraak.'

'What if that's my own business?' Jon replied coldly.

'Then you may go. But,' she leaned forward; 'believe me when I say would do best to tell me your story. Well, myself, and our Shaman.'

'Shaman?'

Fanari nodded. 'Yes. He is our guide when it comes to magic. If your names are true, Jon Stormcloak, Dragonborn, then you have no lack of it.' Dovahkiin stared at her, and then nodded, and she stood. 'Come with me then.'

They left the hall, out into a clear, chilly morning. Od, _snow_, blanketed the ground lightly, and crunched under Jon's step. It was a small village he found himself in, sturdy wooden houses all built up in a rough circle leading from the main hall they had just left. A few people were around, but they ignored Jon; if they were interested, they hid it well. He noticed a blacksmith near them, working his forge. An apprentice hammered out tools, and Jon was reminded suddenly of Windhelm, and Ysold, again. He felt guilty; if he had died in the Temple of Miraak, she would be husbandless, and Alsfur and Ulfgar would be fatherless. It didn't bode well to dwell on that though, so he pushed it from his mind.

Jon turned his attention back to his immediate surroundings, noticing three men sitting cross-legged by a fire. One was an wuth, _old,_ man with a thick grey beard and keen eyes. His face was heavily wrinkled; the others were younger, but older than Jon, well into their thirties. Stormcloak could guess who their Shaman was.

'Storn. He's woken up,' Fanari said.

The old man looked up. 'I can see that. Sit, stranger, and your name.'

Jon sat, but didn't say anything. Instead he studied the other Nord, getting to grips with the nature of this man. 'Yours first?'

The old man frowned. 'It's a curtsy to answer a question.'

'What if I don't like the question?' Jon asked coolly. He didn't trust magic in any form, and he certainly had no faith in this 'shaman'.

Storn watched him carefully, before smiling. 'Well said. I am Storn Cragstrider, Shaman of the Skaal.'

The Nord nodded. 'I am Jon Stormcloak, Dragonborn. What do you want from me?'

'Nothing,' Storn said. 'But a hero.'

Ysold and his sons flashed across his mind, as well as his defeat at Miraak. That touched his kah, _pride_, but it had been too close. No longer. 'I don't do that anymore.'

'Then how did you get here?'

'By being a hero,' Jon replied evenly. 'I said I'd investigate, nothing more. I did, and that's my obligation complete. You saw how it ended.'

'You expect me to believe that?' Storn looked into the fire, the light reflecting off his eyes. 'What about Alduin?'

Jon flinched, and a coldness rushed over him. _Alduin, my greatest enemy. _'What about him?'

'He wants to re-conquer Tamriel. He'll cover it in a second darkness, and you will not survive his purges.'

They snapped Jon from his stubborn refusal to play along; everything he knew would be finished, including his life in Windhelm. 'What do you want of me?' he sighed wearily.

'You need to defeat Miraak, if you are to destroy Alduin.'

'That I can't do.' Jon's voice broke a little. 'He nearly killed me last we met. I… I can't krif… I _can't _fight him again.'

'Can't? Or won't?'

'Both,' Jon snapped angrily. He was tired of Storn's questioning and got up, but the Shaman reached out a hand.

'Let me tell you what I would,' he implored. Stormcloak glared at him, but nodded and sat again. Storn cleared his throat. 'You are the only one who can defeat Miraak. But he is far more powerful, at the moment.'

'At the moment?' Jon echoed, staring at him penetratingly.

'I can teach you secrets that will match his power. Here in this village we can give you the skills you will need to defeat him.'

'What skills?'

'Swordsmanship, survival skills, to make your way through the snows that cover his mountain-'

'I already know these things,' Jon said.

Storn smiled. 'You only think you do. Stay here, and I will ensure that you meet Miraak as an equal.'

Jon pursed his lips, and thought about it. He wanted to return back to Ysold, but if he didn't do this now, his old life would be impossible. 'Fine, but I want to know why he is so much more powerful than me.'

'In time, Dragonborn. In time. We will begin tomorrow, if that suits you,' Storn asked.

His family flashed through his mind. 'Today.' He stood; 'I'm going to check on Ralof,' and the he strode off, ignoring them without another word.

The Greathall was pleasantly faad, _warm_, after the coldness of outside and Jon took a moment to let the heat wash over him, before making his way to the rooms, looking for Ralof. There was one door at the end and he made for it, opening with a crash.

'Good one, Alduin.' Ralof wagged his finger. 'You know, I was afraid I couldn't quite hear you tromping up the hall, but that really did it for me. Hello, Jon,' Ralof said. He was dressed similarly, but wasn't wearing any weapons though, which Jon didn't approve of.

'You're awake. Good. Pick up your weapons.'

Ralof smiled. 'Give me one reason why.'

Jon frowned. 'We don't know where we are.'

'Whatever.' He pushed past Stormcloak, who watched him go, before seizing the other Nord's weapons, hesitating, and then following him outside.

**JON! That was fun to write. Please review! **


	6. A Ralof Among The Skall

**This took a while, but we're getting there. I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, as I just got to pit Ralof and his snark against the world. I'd say Ralof won. **

**I think I've addressed most Favourites etc on my other story, Season's End, as its easier (seeing as this doesn't come out for months at a time.) Even so, to Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! Yes it was, deliberately. It's kind of what Jon would be like if he had grown up with Ulfric, instead of as a bastard. Ralof getting stuff… I do plan to address that (or I did) with Frea, as I'm seeing Ralof in a more bisexual way. We'll see. Maybe not, but who knows. Frea herself may or may not be in it. I'll see. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Jon will find out what Miraak is as we go through this, and yes, bend will (will) play a part in this. Thanks to everyone, even if I forgot you! **

**This was a lot of fun. Please review, otherwise I'm kind of doing it for nothing. Cheers! **

**Carl Ralof Wood **

**The day was nice, Carl **Ralof Wood reflected, as he gazed up at the sky. It was clear and blue, though the sun provided no warmth. _Why don't we ever take any of these quests out into somewhere sunny? _He glanced back at Jon, who was standing sullenly behind him. Ralof smirked at his friend's unease. _Talos, he needs to lighten up. _

'Come on, Jon. Let's go check out this "evil village."'

'I never said it was evil,' he said irritably. 'I don't trust them.'

They started walking, Ralof leading the way. 'Because they're dressed in bear skins? I've seen your travel clothes, Jon. Trust me, even I think you're about kill me sometimes.' Ralof glanced back at him, tromping behind him. 'But now you look like some cute baby seal,' he laughed. 'Ysold would love it.'

Jon's gritted jaw indicated what he thought about that remark. 'I'm starting to consider hanging you up like some baby seal.'

Ralof shook his head in easy dismissal of the threat. 'What, so I can be your personal comedian? I'll hang above the throne, making snide remarks.' He shrugged. 'Not too bad I guess.'

Jon scowled. 'Where are we going then?'

'I've heard wonders about their blacksmith. I thought he might like to see Kodaav.'

'You assume too much, Ralof.'

The Housecarl turned, his face stony. 'Actually, Jon, I assumed you would be a gracious guest.'

'I never asked to be here,' he replied.

'It's like dealing with a five year old,' Ralof cried, raising his hand in exasperation. 'Sometimes I wish Ysold could be strapped to your back so we could just take your sense of reason with you everywhere we go.' He started walking again until they drew near to the forge. It was an open one, and the coals burned fiercely. The blacksmith was hammering away at what looking like a spade, while his apprentice worked the forge with a single minded determination. Ralof made his way up to them, raising his hand.

'What's up?'

The blacksmith looked up, and wiped sweat from his brow. 'The only thing _up_ is what the All-Maker commands.'

Ralof raised an eyebrow, coupled with an 'O-Kay' look. 'Riight. Who the hell is the All-Made?'

'The All-Maker,' he stressed; 'is the only God.'

'Talos might have something to say about that,' Ralof smiled, nudging Jon, who just looked grumpy. 'Well, anyway, name's Ralof Wood, his,' he jerked his thumb at Stormcloak; 'Housecarl.'

'Mine's Baldor Ironshaper.' He wiped his bald head again. 'What are you here for?'

'Got a piece of quality shit to show you,' Ralof grinned. He motioned at Kodaav, by Jon's side. Stormcloak scowled, but otherwise didn't move.

'Steel?' Baldor asked, intrigued as he inched closer to Jon.

Ralof smiled. 'Skyforge.' He glanced at his Jarl, who was obviously angry that his Housecarl was hocking his possessions off like some cheap market trader. Baldor's eyes lit up, and he regarded Kodaav hungrily. Wood motioned for Jon to release it.

'He's safe,' he said. Then he looked at Ironshaper's expression and changed his mind. 'Probably.'

Jon knew he couldn't get out of this, and with visible reluctance, drew Kodaav from it's sheath. He flipped it deftly, presenting the grip to Baldor, who took it almost reverently. He took the steel to his bench and thrust aside everything that already occupied it. Most of the stuff landed on Ralof's feet, which hurt, naturally.

'Skyforge, as you say,' Baldor said. He looked closer, examined the blade before glancing at the sheath by Jon's side. 'Not Graymane work. Oh no, this is far older. I date this at around the time of Ysgramor's first landing.'

Ralof has to admit he was impressed, but Jon wasn't convinced.

'How can you be sure?'

Baldor twisted his head, and shrugged. 'There aren't many who would be able to tell, but it is possible.' He pointed to the edge of the sword. 'See the sides. Most people think that skyforge never dulls. This is untrue.' Jon gave him a stony look, but he continued, undaunted. 'The edge is not dull, far from it. But you can see this slight rounded look, if you really examine it. The curve of that suggests this blade has been around for thousands of years. I'm guessing by the marks, it was sharpened a thousand years ago, and probably once before that.'

Jon was unimpressed. 'What else?' Ralof had to admit that Stormcloak needed to give the man some slack.

'The grip,' Baldor said, indicating the black leather. 'It's worn.'

'It looks like virgin leather,' Jon pointed out icily.

'Sure, it looks like it, from the surface. But look at the weight; it is thinner than it used to be, I'm guessing, due to be ing pressed down.' Baldor studied the grip from a side and then down from the pommel. 'Yes, see. The men that wielded his sword have a strong grip.' He glanced at Jon. 'Undoubtedly,' he added quickly, upon seeing Stormcloak's face. 'In addition, the light of the blade itself. Look at those patterns, like storm clouds. I'm guessing that this is where your ancestors got their name, Stormcloak.' He lifted the sword reverently, before swinging it into his anvil. It cut through halfway, stunning both Ralof and Jon. 'Seems still sharp, but I'd wager that two thousand years ago it would have cut through that.' He regarded Jon for a second, before nodding. 'I can sharpen it if you want?'

'What does that entail?' Jon asked warily.

'Skill, special tools,' he glanced at them. 'Which I have.'

'Oh, no shit,' Ralof remarked. 'Obviously you have them, unless you wanted to give us directions to your friend Stan Skyforge-Skills.'

'Now, listen here, prick,' Baldor shot back angrily. 'Either you treat me with some respect, or I don't sharpen a fucking thing. Got it?'

Ralof raised an eyebrow. 'But you'll do it anyway, right?'

'Yes,' he admitted sheepishly. He took the sheath from Jon's reluctant fingers, which had to be almost literally pried off of it, and took the weapon away carefully to a corner of his forge. Ralof gave Jon a satisfied smile.

'Now we can be sure Kodaav will cut off that bastard's head when the time comes.'

Jon shot him an unamused glare.

Ralof ignored it.

'Now, we have someone else we need to meet. He has something to teach you,' the Housecarl said, and started tromping further into the village, Jon following him sullenly.

As they made their way up, a man appeared at Ralof's shoulder, clutching a mess of necklaces. 'Have you found peace?'

'Obviously not,' Wood muttered. 'You're still here after all.'

'How about faith?' the man asked, undeterred, of Jon. He moved past without a word, and Ralof followed him, with an expression of mock-horror on his face.

'Come on, Jon. Live a little. Smile.' He beamed cheerily but Jon ignored him, instead glancing around with the look of a cornered lion, ready to break free at any moment. Ralof shook his head in disbelief at his friend's guarded nature, and made his way over to an area off to the side of the town reserved for fighting.

In a small hut nearby, Dalmor had everything he needed to stage his mock battles; wooden swords and blunted steel, with thick leather to protect the combatants were ordered neatly inside the small shack, with the look of a perfectionist. The ring was laid out in the same way; two foot high lengths of wood covered each edge, and Ralof noticed that there wasn't much room to fight in. _Obviously our man Dalmor likes his fights close and quick. _Ralof turned to look at Jon, who was regarding the ring with silent accusation.

Wood looked back round just in time to see Dalmor trip his opponent with a neat side-step, and place steel calmly at his throat. Ralof smiled with grudging appreciation for the skill required in that swift takedown, and stepped forward.

'A neat trick, friend,' Carl Ralof said, waving his hand to gain the other man's attention.

Dalmor looked up. 'Friend? Are we well-met?'

Wood frowned. 'Not well enough it seems. I talked to you yesterday, about bringing my boy to training.' He threw an arm around Jon, but Stormcloak shrugged it off with a look that could have melted ice, before turning his shimmering blue and silver eyes on Dalmor.

'This is him, then?' the trainer asked, unintimidated by Jon's icy stance.

'Yeah, this is him.' Ralof raised an eyebrow at his friend, but the Dragonborn didn't deign to speak. He seemed to be engaging Dalmor in some kind of staring competition. _Fucking Stormcloaks! _Ralof thought, exasperated.

To his Housecarl's immense relief, Jon did eventually speak, though his words were less than warm. 'What do you want?'

Dalmor smiled, bemused, and looked at Ralof. 'I want? Where was the stick shoved up?'

'His arse. Really hard. Getting beat by Alduin only forced it further in,' Ralof elaborated.

Dalmor's eyes took on a new light. 'The Dragonborn, huh?' He gazed over Jon, his eyes sharp. 'Okay. Let's do this.' He threw Stormcloak a wooden practice sword, taking one himself, and settling into a ready stance. 'Begin.'

'Wooden swords?' He shook his head and for a second, Stormcloak looked as if he wasn't going to bother with this. Yet suddenly, he turned and launched into a rapid attack. For a second he had the upper hand, but then with a practiced parry, Dalmor turned the duel around and started moving forward. Jon was a highly competent fighter, but no one would ever rank him among the best. It was beginning to show now. Jon tried to side step away from Dalmor's offensive, but the other Nord pressed him back, moving to block any attempt to step past him. Ralof could see that Jon was becoming angry at being humiliated, and he laughed, which didn't actually help, come to think of it.

Jon gave Ralof a furious glare, but in that time Dalmor hit his arm. He grunted in pain, but Wood could see that something was about to happen. Stormcloak threw aside Dalmor's hand as it came for him and shouted. It rippled through the air and threw the other Nord off his feet. Barking more words of draconic, Dalmor's sword flew to his hand and he kicked the other Nord down.

'See, being Dragonborn means I don't have to fight like ordinary men,' Jon uttered coldly.

'Still bleed like them.' Before Stormcloak could react, he threw a throwing knife into Jon's shoulder. It only grazed him, the edge was sharp, but it gave Dalmor the time he needed to kick out Jon's leg, then stand, grasping his wooden sword again, holding it to Stormcloak's throat.

'Looks like I just killed a Dragonborn. Does that make me one as well?' He smirked and tossed the wooden sword aside. Ralof laughed, and stepped over to Jon.

'Well…' he began.

'What?' Stormcloak snapped, waspishly.

'Looks like you just got owned.' Jon didn't return his grin.

**That was very fun to write. A bit of light hearted (hopefully it was amusing) humour. Please, please, please review and I'll be your best friend. **


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